Nibbles sports precious preschooler pout with strategy #41 to stall hitting the sack: “Mamma, I really want a huggy and a kissy and… and a grown-up to sleep next to me”. I cave in to the huggy and kissy but suggest he settle for the teddy as I settle into a home decorating article.

Nibbles plops his head in front of the monitor and whips out strategy #42 to avoid the trip to dreamland. “Mamma, what kind of a mamma are you?” Ouch. That certainly warrants more attention that reupholstering a mid-century chair in damask.

“What? What do you mean what kind of mamma?” Why are you picking questions off my head instead of asking me about mako sharks? He continues, “I mean, are you a doctor-mamma?”. Uh, nope. “Then, you know, what kind of mamma are you?”

Perfect. With all the job-quitting angst hovering around, the one thing I was sure of was that Nibbles loved having me around. “You mean, what kind of job do I have? Well, I’m, you know, your mom…”

*zonk* I hate calling mommying a job – it’s just who I am. He latched onto the uncertainty in my voice, “No, but what do you doooo?”. Completely devoid of any authority or sternness, I beg, “Nibbles, pleeeease, just go to sleep”.

Ever notice how the excitement and eagerness one experiences when the second child reaches a developmental milestone is inversely proportional to that experienced when the first child reached the same milestone?

First Child: ooh look he just rolled over! yay!
*high fives and jungle dancing follows*
Second Child: ooh look he just rolled over! great
*grumbling and lamenting loss of unsupervised naps in bed *

First Child: did he just stand by himself? woohoo!
*chocolate milk shots and bhangra ensues*
Second Child: did he just stand by himself? $%^!
*clears pottery from window ledge and gives up sitting down with a cup of hot chai*

First Child: ohmigosh he’s crawling – he’s actually getting around by himself!
*pure delirium and race for the cameras*
Second Child: ohmigosh he’s crawling – he’s actually getting around by himself!
*hairs grey instantaneously and all furniture posted for sale on craigslist*

There truly can only be one first time and nothing like the first time, eh?

But those feet? Yes those chubby, munchable feet that tiptoe through oversized shorts in an attempt to drop the fishing net into the toilet bowl? They still get me. And I’m hot fudge running down vanilla ice-cream. Every. Single. Time.

She should’ve sensed it coming. Perhaps if she didn’t live in maternity pyjamas all day she would’ve felt her belly expanding like the rain cloud that brought the storm. But even the half-empty nutella jar didn’t pump her with enough serotonin uppers this time.

Her words pitter-pattered down like pellets of non-rain, annoying and unnecessary. She did not see the skies hidden behind the dark shroud that unveiled itself in an unforgettable instant and leashed his tornado around her. In a matter of moments the winds had stopped and life continued outside her, oblivious to the hail stones that continued to stomp within her.

Life continued outside her, in skinny chai tea lattes and nameless interstates. Life continued outside her, in worlds made of lego and barefoot experiments on concrete. Life continued outside her, in the babe that tugged in frustration at breasts that refused to let-down.

She knew the storm had passed…this time. Unsure of the damage sustained within, she longed for battle wounds that gave her reason to hurt and means to heal.

Swatting bytes from one nap to the next, till both babies are down for the night – dream away till yet another summer’s light. And I feel it now, the guilt-soaked relief I’ll call mommaGlee, the constantly prefixed glee, the glee that is going to pinch me on my mommaButt every few minutes as I mindlessly surf the interwebz and is going to hiss, “You should be using this time to craft some meals and cook up some crafts for tomorrow instead of letting your slumber ruin their summer”. Quite the killjoy you are mommaGlee.